


Synchronicity

by WoodsWitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hellblazer
Genre: Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Magic, Metaphysical Sex, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: When it comes to thwarting hellish - and occasionally heavenly - attempts to mess with humanity, John Constantine is an old pro. So when all the signs of impending Armageddon start to stack up and then abruptly vanish, he can't help but investigate. And one name seems to be coming up a lot in hellish chatter on the subject: Crowley.(BTW: If you are unfamiliar with either the Hellblazer comics or Good Omens, there are brief synopses of both in the endnotes)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 118





	Synchronicity

The weather in London was perfect, just like yesterday; a crisp, bright, September afternoon. Too perfect, really. I'm used to a grey drizzle. And considering what last week was like...well, seeing Soho gleaming in the sunshine and all the residents going about with a notable spring in their step was downright disconcerting. And then, as I turned the corner onto Old Compton Street, I saw it, parked out in front of an old-fashioned bookshop: a vintage Bentley, glistening in black and silver. Now me, I'm not normally one to take much note of cars. I don't even drive. But this car...well, it was hard to forget.

See, for a few weeks I'd been feeling something was off. There was a tension in the air. It felt like the fabric of the world was being twisted. The elementals were getting cagey; didn't want to talk about it. Hardly heard anything from the infernal or ethereal realms. It was like they'd all withdrawn from earth. I knew they must be working on something big, and whatever it was couldn't be good. Then the news reports started: Atlantis rising up, rainforests re-growing, nuclear reactors going for a walk by themselves, kraken eating whaling ships. Bit of a hippie-ish set of occult phenomena, honestly, but worrying all the same. Strolling down Regent Street, I nearly got beaned by a good-sized salmon just falling out of the sky. So two days ago, I tried a bit of automatic drawing on a map to see what the ley lines were up to, and found the damn things swirling like a hurricane right around some village called Tadfield. So I grabbed Chaz and his cab and headed for Oxfordshire.

Well, I tried to, anyway. Traffic was murder - literally. The bloody M25 burst into flames just as we got within sight of it.

'Blimey,' says Chaz, 'You weren't kidding about this being your kind of scene.'

'Yeah, except I can't get anywhere near the scene now, can I?'

We were about twenty car-lengths from the highway, with who knows how many behind us; one lane to our left and three to our right, all gridlocked. Then I noticed the car in the far lane next to us. It rather caught the eye. And the ear - somehow you don't expect a posh vintage job to be blasting Queen at quite that volume. And the bloke driving it...he wasn't shouting or screaming or trying to call the police like all the other drivers. No, he was grinding his teeth and glaring at the wall of fire like it had insulted his mother. There was something a bit off about his eyes; set my occult instincts tingling, I can tell you. Then he eased out onto the shoulder and just floored it. Last I saw of the car, it was disappearing into the flames.

And yet here it was in front of me. Not a scratch on it. Not a scratch on _anything_ , actually. I was sure we were headed into actual Armageddon. Was cursing a blue streak at being so bloody useless stuck in that cab... And then nothing happened. An hour or so later, and somehow the traffic was moving, the M25 was as normal as it ever is, and cars that had exploded in the heat of the flames in front of us were miraculously intact again. The weird bit is that no one, not even Chaz, noticed the change. He seemed to have only the vaguest memory of why we were even there. Weirded me out properly, that did, so I had him turn around and take us home. Just glad I didn't have to tell his missus I had him drive me to the end of the world.

Anyway, as I was staring at the car, a lanky chap in black comes swaggering out of the bookshop. Even before he got to the car, I was sure he was the same one who'd driven it into the flames without a second thought. Hard to mistake that hair, or that attitude, even if his eyes were now hidden behind dark glasses. I didn't noticed the second person leaving the bookshop until I saw him open the passenger-side door with a bit of a flourish. The chap who slid inside couldn't have been more different - shorter and softer looking, dressed in some pale old-fashioned getup with a bow-tie. But I didn't have much time to wonder about it. The dark one hopped in the driver's side and sped off like a bat out of hell - which he might very well be. I thought I ought to take a closer look at that bookshop.

~~~

Aziraphale had spent much of the week after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't 1 re-cataloguing his books. Well, the part of the week that hadn't been spent with Crowley, that is. It was a delight not to have to be clandestine about their meetings anymore2. The book sorting was a necessary task, though, given that Adam had put things back almost, but not quite, the way they had been. Many of the books of prophecy had disappeared, and there were quite a few more adventure stories for children. Though most of his other old friends were there, the angel could sense a certain anxiety radiating off of them. Over the years, many of the books had become marginally sentient, and it was as if they had nightmares of burning pages. So had Aziraphale, on the occasion recently when he had attempted to sleep3, so it was soothing to pick up these treasured volumes, to run a hand over their leather bindings, and assure them and himself that everything was now perfectly all right.

The bell on the door jingled and the angel glanced up, hoping perhaps that Crowley had dropped by to invite him to lunch. No such luck, however. The visitor was a rather scruffy looking fellow with a shock of blonde hair and a half-undone tie. He had a trench coat draped over one arm, and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Sir, I must ask you not to smoke in here," Aziraphale said rather severely.

"What? Oh, sorry." The man opened the door and chucked the end of the cigarette out onto the sidewalk. "All right if I have a look around?"

 _If you must_. "Of course. Just...let me know if you want to see look at anything on the third shelf or above and I'll bring you some gloves."

"Right. Ta, mate." The man sauntered off toward the shelves at the back.

Aziraphale found himself hovering anxiously as the man browsed. He wasn't quite sure why this particular customer unsettled him. Bringing a lit cigarette into an antique bookshop wasn't a good start, of course, and he did worry that the man's distinctly smoke-infused aroma might still rub off on the books. But still, there was more to it than that.

The scruffy stranger glanced up at Aziraphale, who was rather conspicuously dusting a nearby shelf. "This place is incredible, mate."

"Oh. Thank you, dear chap." The angel felt himself warming to the man slightly, as he tended to do to anyone who appreciated his books.

"The religion and occult section is...well, I've never seen anything like it. How long have you had this place?"

Oh. _That's_ what was off about this one. It was a bit harder to smell than usual under all the cigarettes, but the traces of magic, human magic, were all over him, plus a touch of demonic brimstone. "Well, the shop is over two hundred and thirty years old. We have amassed quite a collection of...specialty items."

The man - witch? sorcerer? - grinned, as if he'd noticed that Aziraphale hadn't _quite_ answered the question. "Can't believe I never came in here before. My lucky day, innit?"

The angel shifted nervously. Could the fellow be a friend of Crowley's or Anathema's? He would have thought they'd have mentioned recommending his shop to another magic-user, but maybe it slipped their minds. He could ask...but no, probably best to keep their names out of the conversation if the fellow didn't bring it up himself.

"Hey, you've got King James' _Daemonologie_!" the stranger exclaimed, pointing at the top shelf. "I haven't seen one of those in bloody ages."

Aziraphale decided there was one sure way to get the man out of his shop. He didn't like pulling this trick, but... "Yes. Unfortunately, I suspect it is just a smidge outside of your price range." He gave the man's rumpled clothes and stubbled chin a pointed look. "This is a rather exclusive shop, I'm afraid, sir. Not very many...budget items."

The man glared back. "Oh, so it's like that, is it?"

Aziraphale gave him a prim look.

"Well sod off, then, ya poncy bastard. I don't need you or your books." The man stormed off, and the angel breathed a sigh of relief.

~~~

The moment I stepped in the bookshop I knew I'd hit on something weird. The place was absolutely lousy with magic, different types all muddled up. Made me almost forget to put out me fag, as the shopkeeper was quick to remind me. There was a faint buzz to the books themselves. Not unusual in books _of_ magic, but here it seemed to come from everywhere, even the cookery section. Overlaid on that was a...well, it's hard to describe magic to someone who can't feel it, but it's as if every surface was covered in invisible silver and gold glitter. Fuck, that sounds stupid, but it's the closest I can get. Point is...the place had celestial energies out the whazoo, like someone had been performing minor miracles on a daily basis in there for decades. Centuries, maybe. And once I took a second look at the shop owner hanging over my shoulder I reckoned I knew where it was coming from. His reluctance to say how long _he_ had had the shop confirmed it.

Not exactly your typical, angel, mind you. The normal level of snobbishness, sure, but this one actually looked _cherubic_ , like he'd stepped off one of the soppier sort of Christmas card. Fey as anything, too - put me in mind of me old mate Ray when he was in a mood; poor old Ray. That could be an affectation, of course, an attempt to fit into the neighborhood. The important thing was...why would an angel spend a couple of centuries pretending be a shop owner? And, more importantly, why were there traces of demonic energy in there too? Actually, that question was probably answered by the flash bastard with the unsettling eyes I'd spotted earlier. I'd bet good money it wasn't the first time he came in here. But that raised a better question: What were representatives of heaven and hell doing meeting up in a damn bookshop?

~~~

The gorgeous weather couldn't last forever. On a dreary afternoon in February nearly five months after the Apocawhoops, Aziraphale stood staring morosely out the window of his shop. He brightened slightly as the bell tinkled and Crowley sauntered in.

"Hey, Angel. Quite the downpour, eh?" The demon miracled himself dry with a flick of his wings, and turned the shop sign to 'closed'.

"I know. I was hoping it would let up by the time you got here. I wanted to take a stroll down to the park."

"Mmm. Too cold and damp out there for my taste." Snake-like, Crowley far preferred sunny climes. "Still, it's not so bad. Kind of nostalgic, really. It rained like this the first two times we met, remember?"

"Yes, well, hopefully She remembers to turn off the water before everything floods again," the angel replied grumpily.

As much as much as it intrigued Crowley to hear Aziraphale question his former side out loud, he didn't like to see his angel out of sorts. "Tell you what. It's nice and cozy in here. Why not have a sort of indoor picnic, hmm?"

The angel brightened. "What a charming idea, dear boy! You know, I just picked up some scrumptious looking cheeses yesterday, and I'm sure I have a few bottles of Chateau Margaux tucked away..."

Crowley grinned. "Well, there we are then. You go fetch the nibblies, while I get things set up in here."

When Aziraphale returned with a basket containing not only the wine and cheese but also olives, grapes, a baguette, and a pot of paté, the furniture in the back room had been pushed back to make room for the tartan-print blanket from the back of the sofa. The demon was sprawled out in the middle of it. Several of the plants from Crowley's apartment had clearly been miracled over to provide a verdant touch. "So, Angel, what do you think?" he asked, gesturing at his handiwork.

"Oh, my dear, it's lovely," Aziraphale replied, sinking down on the blanket. He happily began unpacking the basket. Soon they were deep into a conversation that ranged from reminiscing about sampling oysters in ancient Rome, to the angel's recent acquisition of a complete set of Tacitus' histories, to whether the recent close call would be likely to make the humans rethink this whole nuclear weapons thing, to atomic-age inspired 1950's cocktails, to modern music.

"For...for Somebody's sake, Angel, you can't keep going around calling everything 'be-bop'4. It's embarrassing." He stole a bit of brie off the angel's plate, and popped it in his mouth.

"Hey!"

"What?" The innocent reply was somewhat muffled.

"If you wanted more cheese, you could have just asked..."

"Well, where's the fun in that?"

By the time afternoon turned to evening they had finished off most of the food, but they continued to banter and drink and exchange occasional wine-flavored kisses. Crowley had set aside his dark glasses, and Aziraphale had even loosened his bow tie.

"Glad we stayed in?" the demon inquired.

"Immensely. You know, my dear, as much I like not having to hide anymore, it is, well, rather divine to have you all to myself."

Crowley made a tiny growling noise in the back of his throat5. A moment later the angel found himself pinned to the blanket, the demon's lips hot and eager on his, his long fingers undoing the buttons of the angel's threadbare velveteen waistcoat.

Aziraphale squirmed. "Er...wait...hold on a moment," he managed to say.

The demon sat back, his brow furrowed. "Oh, sorry. I thought...but if you're not in the mood..."

"No, no, my dear, it's not that," the angel hastened to say. "It's just..." He flushed slightly. "Well, I know temptation is _your_ job and all that, and you're _very_ good at it. But I was wondering if...if I might, um, try taking the lead this time?"

Crowley's eyebrows went up. "Wh...really?" A wicked grin spread across his face, and his yellow eyes sparkled with mischief. "This I have to see. Go on, then. Seduce me. Do your worst."

The angel pouted. "Now you're making fun of me."

"No, seriously, I'm not. Oh, hang on." He sent the plants home. While he'd managed to convince them he hadn't gone soft, it was touch and go already. "Look, I don't want to put you off, so...Here, how's this?"

He grabbed up a book and sat cross-legged, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the text.

Aziraphale smiled, and played along. "What's that you're reading, dear?"

Crowley didn't look at the angel, though he did have to glance at the cover of the book. "Epicurus." _Perfect_.

"Oh, really?" The angel leaned against his shoulder. "Do tell."

"Well, essentially, he says that man should rely on his conscience and feelings to tell what is morally good, rather than on maxims or scriptures or even pure reason itself." Crowley could feel soft fingers stroking his hair, but he studiously refused to turn his head. Not that either of had to actually read the book to summarize Epicurean philosophy; they'd both been around when it was invented, after all. "It also says that the good life comes from pursuing simple pleasures. And that: 'Of the things wisdom acquires for the blessedness of life as a whole, far the greatest is the possession of friendship'."

"Hmm. And what about love?"

"Well, old Epicurus seems a great deal more skeptical on the _eros_ variety than he is regarding the pleasures of philosophy and _philia._ "6 He frowned at the page. "Or cheese, apparently."

"But suppose," the voice in his ear hummed, "that all that grew into something more?"

The demon turned at last. "Well, I suppose that'd be all right then, wouldn't it?"

Aziraphale's grey eyes twinkled, and he leaned in for a kiss. It was a long, slow kiss that made Crowley feel like he was about to melt into a puddle - or at least a pile of snaky coils. He held himself together, though; it would be a bit silly to shift to a form that didn't have lips right now. There was the faintest hint of that tingling sensation that happened when the angel's ethereal energy flared up and brushed against his own dark self.

"May I see your wings, dear?"

Obligingly, the demon unfurled black pinions that stretched the full width of the blanket.

"Magnificent," Aziraphale whispered, stroking the inky feathers lightly.

A shivery tremor passed through the demon. He was even more pleased to see the angel open up his own snowy wings. Wingtip kissed wingtip softly, enveloping them in a feathery cocoon. The angel's light grew brighter, and Crowley forced himself not to react too strongly. Instead, he let the light envelope him, like a galaxy of stars circling a black hole. This was heaven. Or, at least, heaven as it should be - warm and inviting and smelling of every good thing: flowers and tea and old books and wine and more that he couldn't name.

Caught up in that glow, Crowley barely noticed tipping over backwards, though he did give a delighted little murmur as he felt the angel's lips brush against his neck. "Oh... _stars_ that's good."

His hands gripped into silver curls for a moment, but then were pinned back against the blanket.

"Now, now. My turn, remember?"

"Right. OK. Carry on," he managed to say.

The angel returned his attention to the demon's neck, working his way around to the soft place at the base of his throat. Aziraphale gripped the edges of Crowley's shirt...and hesitated. "Er. Is it all right if I..."

The demon grinned. Of course the angel had to ask permission, even though he knew the demon didn't buy clothes, but just miracled up something stylish out of pure firmament. "Go for it."

Aziraphale ripped, and as the buttons went pinging off against the walls and bookcases, the demon felt the warm tingle of the angel's kisses on his chest. White feathers brushed softly against his face and sides. Oh yes, this was completely his angel's style: slow but incredibly persistent, savoring every taste as if he was a plate of crepes.

Crowley groaned softly. "Oh, Angel. You really will discorporate me one day."

The angel lifted his head and smiled. "Oh, I hope not. I'm not nearly done with..."

But at that point, the lights flickered and the demon vanished.

~~~

After my visit to the bookshop, I decided to make some discrete inquiries. The whole thing took a few months. I couldn't get much from the heavenly side of things. There's not too many ethereal entities that are willing to talk to me, or that are vulnerable to a bit of blackmail or bribery. Those I could reach seemed almost embarrassed. The hellish side on the other hand...well, that world was full of aggrieved grumbling. And one name came up over and over again: _Crowley_. Crowley the traitor, the snake in the grass, the one who'd ruined millennia of planning. It took a while for it to click, but then I realized I'd run across that name before. Dozens of times, in fact, in various versions and spellings, dotted all across history: Medieval Europe, Ottoman Turkey, Rome, Egypt, Mesopotamia...as far back as there's a recorded history. But the stories were always frustratingly vague. That's why I'd never noticed the pattern before. Seemed a bit of a shit demon, honestly. Hardly worth bothering to exorcise. No major deeds recorded, apart from a tendency to leave wine cellars rather emptier than he found them. Relatable, really; dealing with hell on a regular basis can certainly drive one to drink. And yet... The minor demons I questioned seemed not only angry but downright terrified. They wouldn't say why, just muttered something along the lines of 'not natural' or 'not one of us anymore'. Evidently the big bosses must be a tad nervous too. Why else would they let a traitor wander about on earth?

I decided it was time to have a word with this Crowley. I've developed quite a knack for summoning demons. All right, fair, my first attempt didn't exactly go to plan. But I've learned since that the key is getting the name right. That, and making sure your circle doesn't get scuffed. I located a suitably quiet spot and set to work. Right in the center of where the circle would go I chalked the unpronounceable serpentine sigil that I was mostly sure represented the creature's true name. I'd tracked it down in a 14th century manuscript along with the words for summoning and a suggested format for the circle to trap the creature. I added some of the strongest runes I knew. You can't be too careful with demons, after all, especially one the rest of hell is frightened of. I uncorked a wine bottle, as the document suggested. Seemed a bit weak, as offerings go, but at least it's quieter than sacrificing cats. Then I lit the candles, and said the words.

As I finished the incantation, something like a bolt of lightning exploded within the circle and a skinny figure, all limbs and wings, dropped into the center.

"What the..." The demon's dark feathers brushed against the edges of the circle as he steadied himself, throwing up sparks. "Ow! Son of a bitch!"

"That's me, mate," I said, a grin spreading across my face. Being right always feels good, dunnit? The dark red hair, the lanky frame... This was definitely the same entity I saw on the M25 and outside that Soho bookshop. Mind you, he seemed to have misplaced his shirt. Not a bad look, to be honest. Summoning usually shocks demons into their true forms, which tend to be a bit on the stomach-churning side. I thought perhaps I'd seen a flicker of scales when he first hit the ground, but overall this one might have been mistaken for an angel, except for the posture. Most angels look like they've got a stick several feet up their ass. This demon, on the other hand, looked like he was trying to swagger while standing still.

He wasn't wearing the dark glasses now, either. Yellow snake eyes glared at me. "Damn it, I was..." The demon paused. If I didn't know what I was talking to, I might have said he _blushed_. "I was _busy_ ," he snarled.

I looked him up and down, lingering a bit on the front of his skinny jeans. "So I see. Doing a bit of seducing this evening, were we?"

There it was again - the flush that seems to have something behind it other than anger. Not that anger was in short supply either.

" _That_ is none of your business. What do you want, anyway? Satan's ass, I thought your lot gave up this nonsense centuries ago. You're worse than telemarketers, you know that? And I should know, I invented them. At least _they_ don't teleport you out of the bath and into the middle of a double-glazing shop, now do they?"

Well, this was going a bit off script. Demons are not generally very happy about being summoned, especially when it means they have to deal with _me_. But this was the first time I'd heard a trapped demon rant about telemarketers and double-glazing. Oh well. Better get to the point. "I want to know what happened five months ago. Or, rather, what didn't happen."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bollocks. The psychic energies were going haywire. The kraken rose up. It was raining fish, for God's sake! And then...everything was fine. _Better_ than fine, at least for a bit. So what happened?"

"You remember that, do you?" the demon said musingly.

"Interfering with heaven and hell's plans to fuck over humans is kind of my line, mate."

He folded his arms and glared at me again. "If you're such a clever-dick, what do _you_ think happened?"

" _I_ think it was nearly the big one. All the signs were there. I was gearing up to go to Oxfordshire - I'd swear that is where the center of it was. But I got stuck in London. And then it all stopped. Someone else got there first, I'd say."

"So why drag me into this?"

"Because on that day I saw some flash bastard in a vintage car drive into the flames on the M25 like he was absolutely certain he'd be fine. Then I saw that same flash bastard drive off in the same car with a bookshop owner that I'd swear is an undercover angel. And now the chatter on the hell circuit is that some traitor named Crowley is to blame for the lack of Armageddon. So I thought we ought to chat."

~~~

Aziraphale had pitched forward as the demon disappeared, smacking his forehead into the bookshop floor. "Ow! Blast it, Crowley, that's not funny..."

He rubbed his head and glanced around, half expecting to see the demon leaning against a bookshelf, smirking at him. It _would_ be his idea of a joke. But there was nothing. In fact, as the angel's ethereal senses told him there was no demon anywhere near the shop, and he recalled the shocked expression that had crossed Crowley's face just before he disappeared, his annoyance quickly turned to panic. He hadn't _actually_ discorporated the demon, had he? No, surely that was just a figure of speech. But then where was he?

The angel forced himself to calm down. He and Crowley had always had a knack for finding one another, after all. He just needed to concentrate. He closed his eyes and extended his senses out further. _There_. The dark flame that was the demon's occult signature was somewhere on the outskirts of London, in a district that was mostly warehouses, as the angel recalled. Very dark and deserted at night. Aziraphael's eyes blinked open. Oh, this was not good. That was the kind of territory other demons, or demon hunters, tended to favor. And criminal gangs, of course, although they didn't tend to use magic. He looked around for the most weapon-like thing in the immediate vicinity. Seizing it, the angel snapped his fingers and vanished.

He reappeared inside an abandoned warehouse. There was Crowley, looking extremely annoyed, standing inside a circle drawn in chalk surrounded by a pentagram of candles. The angel's eyes narrowed as he recognized the man who had visited the bookshop two months prior, reeking of cigarettes and magic. Aziraphael's celestial aura blazed. "You there! What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

~~~

Just when the demon - Crowley - seemed like he might be considering answering my questions, there was a pop in the ether and a bloody angel dropped in. It was fucking furious. I could see pure white wings stretched wide, but the rest was shining so bright it was hard to look at. I thought I heard the demon chuckle as the angel demanded to know what I was doing.

"Easy, mate. Just interrogating a renegade demon. Wouldn't think your lot would object to that."

The angel whirled around to look at the demon. "Crowley, are you all right?"

The concern and anger radiating off him was a bit baffling, to be honest. Sure, this Crowley seemed to have celestial contacts, but that happened sometimes. It was just business. Since when did angels genuinely care what happened to demons?

"I'm fine, Angel. Wouldn't mind getting out of here, though." The demon grinned.

The angel glared at me, and raised up his right hand. "You let him out of that blasted circle immediately, or..."

"Or what, mate? You'll smite me with _that_?"

Crowley looked at the weapon and snickered. "Really, Angel? A flaming paté knife?"

"Don't think I can't make it work," the angel replied hotly, though whether he was trying to convince me or the demon was unclear.

The demon nodded seriously. "I'd listen to him, mortal, I really would. I once saw him take the head off a manticore with a well-thrown dessert plate."

I held up my hands. What _had_ I stumbled into now? "Right, fine. Promise your friend in there isn't going to rip my face off if I let him go?"

The angel glared at me. " _He_ wouldn't. But I promise if you don't open that circle _right now_ you are going to bitterly regret even _beginning_ to dabble in magic."

"Way ahead of you there, mate. Though I'm a bit more than a dabbler, I'll have you know." I scuffed a break in the chalk circle with my shoe and blew out one of the candles.

The demon stepped out, stretching his coal-black wings wide. "Ah, that's better. A bit cramped, these magic circles. Hmm." He snapped his fingers, and materialized a black silk shirt and a pair of sunglasses.

The angel rushed to his side. His glow had faded enough that I could see his features properly for the first time. It was the fussy little bookseller, though he looked considerably more disheveled than when I'd last seen him, his bowtie missing and his waistcoat buttoned up crookedly.

"My dear, are you truly all right? I..."

The angel paused, sniffing. "Is that _holy water_ in your pocket?" he demanded, once more rounding on me, aura blazing.

"You don't think I'd summon up a demon without a bit of insurance, do you?" I tried to say it casually, but this whole situation had me a bit off kilter.

"Easy, Angel," Crowley said, seizing the avenging celestial being's hand and drawing him back. "I'm honestly fine. He didn't threaten me or anything. I used to have the same 'insurance' on stock, remember?" To my astonishment, he actually wrapped his arm around the angel's shoulder. "Really, it seems like this whole thing was more a poorly-timed business call than anything."

The angel seemed to lean into the demon's side. "Be that as it may, I don't care to take chances with your safety." He glared at me again and snapped his fingers. I felt my coat pocket get suddenly lighter. There was a smashing sound on the far wall.

Crowley smiled at the angel. Not a smirk, not a grimace, a genuine smile. There was mischief in it, sure, but also a ridiculous level of fondness. "It's not every demon gets a guardian angel. How'd I get so lucky?"

And then it all clicked. Blimey...

~~~

Aziraphale was beaming up at Crowley, basking in the joy of finding his demon safe and even largely unperturbed by this strange adventure, when the two of them noticed that the sorcerer in the trench coat had collapsed into helpless laughter.

Crowley's brow furrowed. "What is your problem, mate?"

The man tried to pull himself together. "Sorry... It's just... Strewth, I've had some weird relationships myself over the years, but _this_..." He waved his hand the pair of them, "This takes the cake."

Aziraphale put on his 'offended maiden aunt' look. "I don't know what you are implying, sir..."

"Oh, yes you do," the man replied, giving him a saucy wink, before turning to Crowley. "Is _this_ why you... Or were you _both_ involved somehow?"

"Crowley, what is this idiot blathering about?" the angel demanded.

"Well, before you showed up, Mr..." He paused, waiting for a name.

"Constantine," the man in the trenchcoat replied with a smirk, "John Constantine."

A variety of expressions chased each other across Crowley's face. "What, seriously? Oh, that explains a lot."

"It does? Crowley, who _is_ this man?" The angel was clearly getting annoyed again.

"Well, put it this way," the demon replied, "If there is anyone who's as much in hell's bad books as me, and as irritating to heaven as you, it's that human over there. Any time I dropped in to Head Office over the past few decades _someone_ was either complaining about him or snickering over the discomfiture of some fundamentalist cult or other who had the misfortune to cross the 'laughing magician'. Seems he noticed the Apocawhoops and worked out that I had something to do with it."

Constantine stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned smugly. "That's right. Surprised you hadn't heard of me if, as I would assume from your association with this bloke, you're anti-apocalypse as well. Didn't you ever wonder why the Second Coming your lot were trying to set up never happened?"

Just for a moment, Aziraphale noticed the man's grin falter, as a flash of grief and guilt passed across his features and then vanished as quickly as it had come.

"No, I'm not briefed on all policy matters," the angel replied. "We've been rather busy down here dealing with the Antichrist, if you must know."

"The... are you saying _you two_ defeated the Antichrist, and that's why the whole thing just...stopped?"

Aziraphale looked rather offended at the tone of "you two", but shut his mouth at a look from the demon. Yes, probably better not to mention their original roles. And after all...

"Well, not _defeated_ , as such," Crowley replied, waggling his head, "More...what's the word?"

"Misplaced," Aziraphale supplied. "And briefly mentored."

Constantine gaped. "Mentored?"

"He's quite a nice boy, really. The human upbringing did wonders. Really, it just took a nudge for him to fix the whole thing on his own."

" _Is?_ You mean he's still here? As in _on earth_?"

"Not as the Antichrist, so don't you even _think_ of bothering the poor lad!" the angel said sharply, "His magical abilities have quite settled down to...well, somewhere between ours and yours, I suppose. Nothing world-ending."

"He does still have the charisma thing going," Crowley admitted, "Though so far he does seem to be using it for good 7. Well, mostly. That and charming his way out of consequences for missing homework."

Constantine still looked skeptical, so Crowley gave him his most winning smile. "Relax, mate. We've got it sorted. If any of the boy's satanic tendencies start acting up again, we'll be sure to hear about it." He paused. "Tell you what, though. If you hear anything about our former sides ramping up the tensions, or making plans to harm me or my friend Aziraphale here... give me a call will you?"

He passed over a card that bore a name - Anthony J. Crowley - and a phone number, and nothing else.

"Come on, Angel. Let's go home."

And in a flutter of black and white wings, they were gone.

~~~

Back at the bookshop, the Aziraphale leaned against Crowley's shoulder as they sat on the back room sofa. "I can't believe you gave that horrible little man your phone number."

Crowley swirled the wine in his glass. "Well, it's better than having him magic me halfway across the city again if he wants another chat. It was inconvenient enough this time."

" _And_ you gave him my name!"

"I couldn't very well ask him to look out for plots against you if he didn't know what you were called, now could I?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "You really trust this human?"

Crowley snorted. "Trust John Constantine? Not a chance. From what I hear, the man goes through friends like tissue paper. _Mortal_ friends, mind you, but still. On the other hand, he's got his ear to the ground when it comes to occult matters. And seeing as Our Side is basically just the two of us..."

"Well, and Anathema and Adam."

"All right, the four of us. Point _is_ , no reason NOT to have him as a probationary part of Team Earth given that he's in basically the same position vis-a-vi heaven and hell. Worse, really. He's human, so there's a limit to how long he can play this game. Still does it, though. Never made up my mind whether that was incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."

Aziraphale gave the demon a long look. "You rather like this human, don't you?"

"What, a swaggering sarcastic trickster? Thought that was more _your_ type, Angel." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Oh, shut up."

Crowley grinned evilly. "Make me." 

And so the angel did.

~~~

It was bucketing down outside. I pulled up the collar of my coat to make the dash to Chaz's cab but ended up drenched all the same.

He glanced at me. "Seeing as nothing appears to be blown up, on fire, or covered in blood, I'm guessing your chat with the demon either went well or he didn't show up at all."

"Oh, he showed up. Unusually polite for a demon - he gave me a bloody business card. No, it was the angel threatening to take my head off with a paté knife for kidnapping his boyfriend that had me worried for a bit."

Chaz frowned. "You been drinking, John?"

"Not yet, mate, not yet."

I lit a fag and stared out at the rain-washed city. What a bloody weird pair. And what was it the demon had said about their 'former sides'? Angels and demons don't just _retire_. What kind of trick did they pull, I wonder? Hmm. Definitely worth some further investigation.

"I'll tell you this, though, mate..."

"Yeah, John?"

"If an angel and a demon can look at each other like that... Maybe there's hope for this whole sorry mess of a world yet."

1\. Which he and Crowley were experimenting with calling the Apocawhoops for short. Back

2\. Not that they'd ever been nearly as good at the clandestine stuff as they liked to imagine. St. James' park might well be a favored meeting place for secret agents, but most of them don't follow up such meetings with lunch dates in popular restaurants. Back

3\. Images of hellfire and holy water and Falling had also featured prominently. Crowley had assured him that nightmares were normal after intense events, and that they tended to be worse when such worries were allowed to pile up. Considering that Aziraphale hadn't slept for at least 300 years, the pile was quite large. Back

4\. The very first jazz concert in the UK happened down the street from Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley, always a fan of creative improvisation and new things in general, had insisted they go hear this 'be-bop'. The label seemed to have rather gotten stuck in the Principality's head. Back

5\. Even minor blasphemies could be quite titillating, coming from an angel.Back

6\. Handily for philosophy, the ancient Greeks had multiple words for love, among them _Eros_ \- romantic/sexual passion, considered to be volatile and rather short-lived on its own; _Philia_ \- friendship, a platonic relationship between equals; _Storge_ \- love of family, particularly between parents and children; _Ludus_ \- a playful, flirty version often paired with eros in new relationships; _Pragma_ \- mature, balanced love, seen in long-term pairings; _Mania_ \- dangerously obsessive love that can lead to codependency or jealousy, resulting from an imbalance of eros and ludus; _Agape_ \- selfless, unconditional love, often connected to spirituality; and _Philautia_ \- healthy self esteem. Back

7\. Adam - with Pepper's assistance - had recently inspired 90% of the students in his school and half the teachers to ditch class in favor of joining a climate change protest in Oxford. Anathema had gone along as chaperone (though who exactly it was she was looking after wasn't entirely clear). She needn't have worried - the kids had been the highlight of the whole event and just managed not to incite any riots.Back

**Author's Note:**

> The Hellblazer and Good Omens universes are very similar on paper: Heaven and hell in a mostly-cold-war with one another, with earth as the battleground, and one or more humanist heroes who prefer earth to either side. The tones are VERY different, though, so I wasn't sure how well it would work. Still, should the real Big One indeed be heaven and hell against humanity, Constantine would definitely be there. 
> 
> I only remembered after I wrote the first draft of this that I had first encountered Constantine in another Neil Gaiman creation: he makes an appearance in Sandman, having acquired Morpheus's pouch of dream sand. The ending of that story is also a bit more cheerful than usual for Constantine, which definitely says something about Hellblazer, given that the Sandman universe isn't exactly all sunshine and rainbows either.
> 
> ###For Good Omens fans not familiar with Hellblazer:  
> John Constantine is a chain-smoking working-class sorcerer/occult detective/exorcist with a rather bitter sense of humor. His first demon-summoning went horrifically wrong; he'd tried to free a young girl from demonic possession by summoning up a stronger demon, but he didn't know the second demon's true name and so couldn't control it. It ended up dragging the girl off to hell and killing dozens of people. His magical skills improved considerably after that, and he's found himself foiling not only hellish plans, but celestial ones too. In the comics, unlike in the film adaptations, he's far more concerned with surviving on earth than in getting into heaven. His comics are usually narrated in first person.  
> Constantine's luck is legendary. "Synchronicity" is what he calls his knack for feeling the patterns of the universe and being in the right place at the right time. Unfortunately this luck doesn't extend to his friends. He is haunted by those he couldn't save, or who he sacrificed to save the world and/or himself. Oh, and while the comics don't seem to have done much with the idea, focusing mostly on female love interests, Constantine is canonically bi...which is why it seemed reasonable that he'd be checking Crowley out a little.  
> The bit about the Second Coming refers to a cultish group called the Resurrection Crusade trying to fulfill a prophecy about a supernatural birth using John's girlfriend Zed as the vessel. That would have tipped the balance between heaven and hell, and demon Nergal gave the hospital-bound John an infusion of demon blood to heal him so he could stop the birth happening. John isn't keen on murdering Zed, and they have one last fling. Of course, that results in her carrying the scent of a demon; the angel that the Resurrection Crusade calls down reacts to that in a rather more extreme way than Constantine was expecting, tearing down the whole building. Constantine makes sure the prophecy doesn't get fulfilled on hell's side either. 
> 
> ###For Hellblazer fans not familiar with Good Omens: Aziraphale and Crowley have been on earth since the Garden of Eden. In fact, Crowley was The Serpent, and Aziraphale the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Their first interaction involves Crowley being highly amused that Aziraphale gave away his flaming sword because Adam and Eve looked chilly. Over the years, they both became quite fond of earth, and each other, so that when Crowley is given the assignment of dropping off the infant Antichrist his first thought is to convince the angel to help him stop the apocalypse from actually happening. Their plan involves trying to balance out each other's influence on the child. As it turns out the Satanic nuns messed up the baby swap and the actual Antichrist, a boy called Adam, grew up in an aggressively average human household. A witch named Anathema Device accidentally introduced him to the concept of the occult via New Aquarian magazines, hence the rather new-age vibe to the events that signal his full powers emerging. This almost leads to the Apocalypse, but in the end Adam decides he also doesn't want the world to end. With some assistance from our dynamic duo, Anathema, and others, he defies Satan and puts the world back almost the way it was.  
> Although the book never said that Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship was more than an unlikely friendship, a lot of readers sensed a certain old-married-couple vibe. That didn't include me at first, but "angel" and "dear boy/my dear" do sound like plausible-deniability pet names, their story somewhat parallels that of two other characters (Sergeant Shadwell and Madame Tracy) who are generally interpreted as being a couple by the end, and their last scene is a reference to an old love song. The Amazon mini-series adaptation leaned into the idea that Good Omens is really a love story, though stopping short of specifying exactly what that means for two supernatural entities for whom sexes, genders, or indeed anything physical (including sleeping and eating) are optional.


End file.
